


Another kind of interest

by blue_butterfly



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: (kind of), Arguments, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, Erotica, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Lots of Talk, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rough Kissing, Slow Build, Touching, Voyeurism, a bit of, shy first kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_butterfly/pseuds/blue_butterfly
Summary: After Francis' funeral, Ross' world is upside down. But so, it seems, is George Warleggan's, or why would he come out with a surprising confession, and to Ross of all people? In any case, Ross finds himself curious and extends a fateful invitation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is going to have 5 chapters or maybe 6, most of which are already written. The rating will go up to E in later chapters and I'll edit the tags accordingly. Please do yourself a favour and listen to the wonderfully sad track "Resurgam" on the Poldark soundtrack while reading the first chapter. It was what inspired me to write this in the first place.

Ross was suffocating.

His neckcloth was suddenly too tight, and he had trouble breathing.

As the oldest living male Poldark, the sad task of presiding at his cousin's funeral fell into his responsibility. Quite a number of matters needed his attention, from the wording of the obituary to the seating in the church, from taking everybody’s condolences to comforting the grieving family – everyone looked to him for guidance when in truth Ross felt just as lost as everybody else and had even less an idea of what to do in these circumstances.

He’d always hated funerals. His father's he had missed, but his mother’s was still fresh in his mind despite all the years that had passed. Ross was ten when she died, a skittish child who smiled little and got into trouble a lot. Her death left him confused, and angry, much in want of someone to blame for the bereavement of his mother. If possible, Ross Poldark would have gone to feud with Death himself. A year later, his little brother Claude followed her into the grave. Another name on the list of lost loved ones; another reason for Ross to quarrel with fate, spending most of his days out at the shoreline where he watched the gathering of clouds and the breaking of the waves far out at the horizon, harbingers of a storm much like the one brewing inside his mind.

Next came uncle Charles, and then there was of course the newest and deepest wound - the untimely death of Ross' own daughter. And now his cousin. His only cousin, the last of the Poldarks of Trenwith.

Francis’ sudden death was nothing short of a tragedy. The shock still sat too deep. Ross' own mind was a jumbled mess, fragments, flitting to and fro, his brain too numb to think any of them to whatever reasonable end.

If only he had come to the mine an hour earlier, thirty minutes, ten even…that could have saved Francis’ life. 

If he hadn't talked him into the mining enterprise in the first place. 

Why, oh why hadn’t the fool learned how to swim?

Next to the huge gap that Francis left in the family hierarchy, Ross was also afraid to think of the consequences. Elizabeth, Geoffrey Charles, Aunt Agatha – what would become of them? How would life go on without a man to provide for them? Ross could not take this responsibility even though he dearly wished he might; his own destitute finances left hardly a living for Demelza and himself. What about Trenwith? And the mine? What should become of their venture now that Francis was not there anymore?

Suddenly the church appeared to be spinning. The figures of saints sprang to life, looking down on him from stained glass windows, whispering of selfishness and failure from beneath their gilded halos. He grabbed his prayer book tight, sweaty fingers marring the once golden letters on the leather casing. Bearing the coffin had taken the last of his strength, in physical terms as well as mentally. Verity shot him a look from across the aisle – had she seen him teeter, sway? The floor felt like it was being pulled from underneath his feet. He must not let Verity see his weakness.

Once the mass was over, Ross hurriedly stepped outside into the cool air of the churchyard. It helped his composure a little, but Ross wasn’t able to bear any of the chatter that inevitably ensued. He wasn’t good at leisurely conversation anyway, even less when his mind was still dwelling on darker matters, and so he accepted a few expressions of sympathy and shook a few hands, but excused himself as soon as it was decent and made away for the quieter part of the graveyard, behind the church, where he hoped to find some relief for his troubled thoughts or at least a moment to collect himself again. 

It was there, leaning with his back against the cool stone of the sacristy’s wall, lifting his face up into the slight drizzle from above, that he heard light footsteps on the gravel.

Opening his eyes Ross found George Warleggan approach him. 

He heaved an inner sigh. Wasn’t it enough that he had served protocol by sending word of the funeral to Cardew, when in truth he’d have preferred it to remain an entirely private affair? At least George had had the decency to show up alone, not in the company of his foul-mouthed uncle, and he had actually behaved during the service, posing no source for irritation whatsoever, so that was something. One had to be glad about the little things. However, nothing good could come from George seeking him out, and Ross was quite convinced that the young banker would show his most despicable side once more. Surely, George would have found something to taunt and jab, to irritate Ross just for the sake of it, or provoke him into a hasty reaction. Oh, why could this man simply not live in peace?

Straightening his coat, Ross waited for the footsteps to come close until finally the curled blond hair and black top hat entered his view.

“My heartfelt condolences, Ross,” George said with a small nod of his head.

That was unexpected. Maybe he had some sense of decency after all. In any case, Ross decided rather not to take the test.

“Thank you, George,” Ross’ reply was not unfriendly, but curt enough to mark the end of this exchange. There was nothing left to say after all.

However, George either did not get the hint or was deliberately ignoring it. Ross wished he would just go and leave him alone with his grief and his sorrow, but George stayed where he was, his posture rigid, stiff, his eyes darting about between the graves and the church and the ground. Eventually he cleared his throat and spoke again.

“I am aware our relationship had deteriorated recently, but – Francis was my friend.”

Ross frowned at that but didn’t say anything. He had his very own opinion on the ‘friendship’ between his cousin and the banker and how it had been a rather one-sided affair, at least until Francis finally saw through George’s scheming. On the other hand, if this was what George considered a friendship, then one could almost pity him.

George was wringing his hands in an almost nervous fashion, and Ross could see his throat working behind the fine neckcloth as if he were struggling to say something. George’s mouth was pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched, a steep crease forming between his eyebrows. He looked tense and somewhat distraught, blinking rapidly like he was afraid of revealing something by accident that was not for Ross to know. It was certainly an odd behaviour, for Ross had never seen his rival other than composed and calm.

“He was the only friend I had,” George said in the end, and to Ross it seemed as if he hadn’t meant to say that at all. “The only real one, I mean.”

Now Ross was indeed about to give a heated reply. George’s so-called friendship had dragged Francis low enough to turn him into a drinker and a gambler. It had made him risk his estate and his marriage and brought the entire family close to ruin. Then, for once, Ross thought twice and swallowed the sarcastic remark that was on the tip of his tongue. Now was not the time for quarrelling. Whatever George was up to, Ross would not give him reason for another fight.

Not this time. Not at a loved one’s funeral.

“I will miss him,” George admitted quietly, his gaze eventually settling uneasily on Ross’ face.

There was something in George’s eyes that Ross could not fathom. They were usually cold, colourless, grey as the sky on a rainy day and schooled to such a neutral expression that it was impossible to figure out the true nature of George’s thoughts. But now there was an emotion in them so strong that Ross inevitably drew a sharp breath; a sort of rawness he had never seen on George before. Wide-blown pupils danced like boats lost on a stormy sea. The cold grey eyes seemed unsteady, fluttering, almost feverish.

“Forgive me,” George said in the end and turned his back to Ross.  

What was the shaking of those shoulders?  
The hand going up to cover his mouth?  
  
Was George weeping?

No, that could not be. Proud George Warleggan would not shed a tear for anyone, let alone in the presence of Ross Poldark.

Fog had begun to spring from the ground, covering the graveyard like a solid blanket. It wrapped its eerie fingers around tombstones both old and new, caressing mossy letters that spelled out names of loved ones long gone. The church had become partially obscured, and only a lone tree at the graveyard’s edge stood silent watch.

The solitary figure in the dark silk suit looked lost against this dismal backdrop.

Suddenly Ross heard a sob.

Had George been the source of that? Ross could have sworn that rather the earth would open up to release the spirits of the dead than anyone would ever witness George Warleggan humiliate himself by showing emotion. Then there was another of those suppressed sounds, barely human, and it was clear: the man before him was indeed weeping.

Hesitatingly, Ross walked up behind him. George did not move. Ross reached out, his hand lingering in mid-air for a long moment before he laid it on George's shoulder, giving a small squeeze that he hoped was as reassuring as he meant it.

“I'm sorry, George. I didn’t know you had…” Ross swallowed thickly. 

 _I didn't know you had feelings._ Ross stopped himself.He did not mean to insult the other man, but it was difficult with George, always had been. Nasty words were easier to say than pleasant ones.

“I didn’t know you valued your friendship with Francis so much. My apologies.”

George merely nodded. From the side Ross watched him close his eyes for a few seconds. The droopy lids seemed even heavier than usual. A single tear was dripping from his lashes to the ground, and there was a hint of wetness on those ivory cheeks, but other than that George was a picture of perfection. There was no further sound, not even another quiet sob. 

 _How peculiar_ , thought Ross.  _He is indeed capable of emotions. Either that, or he is an excellent liar._  Then George took a deep breath, opened his eyes again, straightened himself and turned to face Ross.

“Thank you.”

What made him say the next words, Ross did not know for sure. Pity maybe for this man who wept alone for his only friend; or the notion that grief for a loved one should be shared even with an enemy. Maybe it was also the look in those eyes.

“Would you consider joining us at Trenwith for the wake and dinner?” 

Ross’ breath formed little clouds in the cooling air. He watched George's eyes go slightly wide once the meaning of the words had settled in. The banker was searching Ross’ face, trying to find the catch in this generous offer, the flaw, but could not come up with any, for there was none.

In the end, he inclined his head to Ross, a small smile on his lips.

“Gladly.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross and George find themselves meeting in an awkward situation, and each surprises the other by revealing something about themselves that no one had thought possible - and maybe it helps them understand each other better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up right where chapter 1 ended, so it's still the same day.
> 
> Some notes on contemporary words:
> 
> Banyan Gown = an at-home robe for gentlemen to wear around the house in informal situations, much like today's bathrobes, but of finer materials.
> 
> Shift = A simple shirt made of cotton or linen, to be worn by men under the waistcoat and coat, but also as sleepwear by both sexes.

                                                       

* * *

 

 

 

Ross was restless that night. 

Dinner had been a subdued affair even with George present at the table. Grief held everyone’s spirits in its claws and no one, including the young Warleggan, was in the mood for stirring up a conflict, let alone for making snide remarks. Even Aunt Agatha was quiet, although she had reprimanded Ross earlier for allowing an ‘intruder’ into the house at such a time of mourning. 

Ross wasn’t quite sure himself what had driven him to extend an invitation to George. He’d explained to his old aunt that Francis’ death should not be in vain and that an attempt at peace could perhaps be made, and even though his feelings were still muddled about what kind of peace this could possibly be and how it could be achieved, that was indeed his ambition. Ross was tired of the feud. Warring with George had cost him effort and energy in the past. Now, he must fix his attention elsewhere. Elizabeth was going to need his help concerning the running of the estate, and he had his own affairs to tend to. There was no time now for old enmities.

However, Ross was aware that a truce between the Warleggans and the Poldarks would have to be carefully concerted, and it would always remain a delicate thing. More than anything else it had been the sight of George’s open, honest grief for Francis that had moved Ross to extend a hand in as much friendship as he could offer at the present point. As always when it came to his old nemesis, Ross couldn’t help but hold grain of doubt, but maybe George was indeed as shocked by Francis' death as everyone else, and was mourning in his very own way.

And thus, Agatha Poldark was reduced to shooting the ‘intruder’ an occasional suspicious glance while Ross for the most part was thankful that George did not misuse the hospitality for his own ends. In truth, the banker was nothing but polite and attentive. Ross couldn’t help but admire the immaculate manners, the easiness with which George mastered the situation. George might not have been born a gentleman, but he certainly acted like one; something that Ross himself was admittedly at odds with. Especially Elizabeth and Verity were in dire need of as much distraction as possible, and George’s innate ability for conducting a light and easy conversation served that purpose well. If Ross was totally honest with himself he, too, was quite glad for anything that had not to do with Francis at the moment, even if it meant he needed to trouble his mind with George.

Such were his thoughts as he lay in bed next to Demelza late at night, in the same room they had used at their Christmas sojourns. Had that really been only some months past? Francis had been exceptionally well and happy back then. That he should not live to see the next Christmas celebration at his house, who could have known?

Rolling around, Ross was unable to find a comfortable position to sleep in. Too heavy were his thoughts, too fresh his grief, and always they returned to the same questions over and over again. Demelza next to him slept deep and untroubled. Verity had prepared a concoction of valerian and camphor for Elizabeth which would help procure sleep and ease the nerves, and Demelza had asked for a cup as well. That left Ross in want for company other than the one of his all too busy thoughts.

After another fruitless attempt to lure himself into sleep, he eventually pushed back the cover and swung his legs out of the bed, careful not to wake Demelza despite the sleeping draught. He remained there for a moment, looking down at his wife in peaceful slumber, before he moved quietly to the chair in front of the fireplace. A lush banyan gown of red and silver silk was draped atop, having once belonged to Ross’ uncle Charles, but never been worn.

Ross grabbed it from the chair and slid it on. The silk was cool on his naked skin, caressing him like a thousand hands. He suppressed the shiver than ran through him at the touch and wrapped the belt around his middle. The robe was too big for him and left a large open gap across his chest, but Ross did not care. It was dark outside and he was not likely to run into anyone at this time of the night. He put on a pair of soft bedroom slippers before he tiptoed to the door and stepped out into the long hallway with no particular destination in mind. Maybe wandering the halls where he had spent his childhood would bring him some relief, or make him sufficiently tired at least.

Trenwith was silent. Not an eerie silence but rather a comfortable one, as if the house itself was resting after a busy day, collecting its resources for another morning that would undoubtedly arrive. Ross wandered the corridors revelling in childhood memories. The portrait gallery, where long gone ancestors stared down at him with grave looks from lofty heights. The large drawing room where his father had so often sat – and argued – with his brother Charles. The little bay at the far end of the summer salon, where one could look out onto the garden and beyond on a good day. Behind the hills lay Nampara, and even further behind his home were green meadows stretching far and wide to where the land met the sea at the cliffs beyond the cove.

His favourite place at Trenwith however was the long gallery on the first floor, where Francis and he had used to play as children when the weather was too inclement to go outside. Oh, how often had aunt Agatha shouted at them not to run on the carpet, and how often had they ignored the old lady and competed against one another for being the one to reach the far end of the gallery first. Smiling and lost in memories, Ross walked along the stretch of carpet that seemed much shorter now that his legs were longer, his fingers running lovingly along the chiselled pillars of the balustrade. How many more generations of Poldarks would there be left to do the same, he wondered.

Upon reaching the corner where the gallery led off to the south wing, he was surprised to see that another person had found the way to this rather secluded spot.

The Poldarks and their guests had retired to the drawing room after dinner, and over stories and music and talk the evening had passed quickly, so that Ross had thought it decent offering George to make use of one of Trenwith’s guest rooms for the night. Darkness had fallen early and the fog had not lifted but rather increased, and George had come alone on horseback, not in a carriage. Ross suspected the reason for that might be that travelling alone offered a lot more freedom, and that George had not necessarily informed his uncle about his attendance of the funeral. Whatever the case, these were dangerous times and a lone gentleman on horseback in the dead hours of the night was easy prey for any roving scoundrel; a risk Ross would not allow anyone to take, not even a Warleggan. And so George came to spend the night at the heart of his arch-enemies domain.

He was dressed only in a simple white shift of about knee-length. His legs were bare, and he was also barefoot. He stood at the window, one hand on the sill, and was looking out onto the yard that lay beneath in darkness.

At once, Ross’ old suspicions were back. What was George doing up late at night in a foreign house? Spying out any family secrets? Eavesdropping at the doors? Had he been trying to sneak into the empty rooms or, even worse, into someone's bedchamber perhaps, to take advantage of the situation? Resolutely, Ross marched down the corridor to confront the man about his motives.

“George. May I ask what brings you here at this hour?”

Strangely, the young banker didn’t look startled or caught at all. Turning towards Ross he simply greeted him with a small nod. “Ross. I couldn’t sleep and took to wandering instead, in the hope of finding distraction. You?" 

Upon closer inspection, this seemed to be true. George's usually neatly coiffed hair was in a bit of disarray, and he had red-rimmed eyes - from lack of sleep? Or had he been crying again? And, well, Ross admonished himself to be realistic. If one wanted to spy on one's enemy, one would hardly do so in just nightclothes. Ross relaxed, letting out a deep breath. He leaned with his back against the window next to George. 

“Same,” he said in reply to the earlier question. “I couldn't sleep either.”

“Just too many thoughts to keep the mind occupied,” George said in a musing tone. “It has been a long day.”

“Yes,” Ross agreed, lost for any more words.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” George then addressed him again. “It is much appreciated.”

Ross waved it off. “Ah, it's nothing.”

For a while the two men just stood there in silence. George couldn't possibly see anything on the outside except maybe for the silhouettes of the fountain and the gate. A candle was burning in a blender on the wall behind them, its soft light reflecting in the thick crown-glass windows. Ross secretly took to studying his guest’s profile. A sharp-angled jaw, high cheekbones, an elegant nose - it had healed well, nothing gave away that Ross had broken it nearly a year ago. There were tiny freckles dotted across the bridge of said nose. Ross suddenly realized that he hadn't properly looked at George since they'd left school; all their encounters since his return from the war had been brief, sometimes violent, and not marked by the patience or the need to map out each other's facial features in detail.

There was also a new air of self-confidence about George, something he had profusely lacked as a schoolboy. He had always been a rather small and pale creature, nervous and easily frightened, unable to withstand anyone in a dirty fight. Now he was still slender, but he had filled out nicely around the shoulders and even though his hands were clean and white and manicured, Ross knew from experience that they could land a mean punch if George wanted to. It was there in the dim light of the single candle that Ross suddenly and with a pang of regret understood they were not schoolboys anymore, and that time moved on without mercy or compassion, or regard to those who wished to make the most of it.

“Did you know I've always admired Trenwith from afar as a child?" George suddenly addressed him without turning away from the window.

“I used to pass here with my parents, and I always thought, what a grand and splendid house. I imagined what it would it be like living in such a place. When I came here for the first time, dragged along by Francis, I was awestruck by all the finery. Your aunt scolded me for gawking like a bull-calf, and she’s probably right. I was gawking indeed, for I had never seen such wealth before.”

“And now your own house is three times as big as Trenwith.” Ross said without malice. It was a matter of fact: Trenwith's golden days were over; others were on the rise.

“Four times as big, but hardly as refined.”

Ross looked at him quizzically, and George met his gaze.

“Cardew is full of expensive but tasteless furniture bought with the sole intention to impress others. Nothing of it has a history, or any other worth whatsoever beyond money. There are no heirlooms, no treasured possessions handed down over generations.”

He turned back to the window, and Ross began to wonder what he hoped to find out there.

“All our pieces are exchangeable, and some of them are actually quite tacky.”

Ross chuckled at that. “I can’t help but agree, you know. Those golden chandeliers are really rather awful.”

George snorted, then shrugged. “My uncle’s taste, not mine. At least I do get a say in furnishing my own room. I guess I have to be thankful for that.”

Ross let out a laugh, the first on this otherwise truly awful day. George being capable of a joke on his own expense, who had thought that possible? And even some form of self-criticism. Ross was impressed. He liked this surprisingly easy exchange between them. For once their conversation was not strained by ambition, spite, or sarcasm. Just two men talking to each other about trivial things. Ross wondered when exactly he had started to feel about George the way he did - angry, constantly annoyed - and why. He could not come up with a definite answer.

“Most of Trenwith’s charm is thanks to the ladies,” he heard himself say instead. “It was a rather gloomy old house, caught up in its own past until my aunt Verity, Francis’ mother, gave it a bit of a makeover. She was responsible for the summer and the winter parlour being built, and she redid many of the rooms in a lighter style than the old Tudor furnishings. And now it's thanks to Elizabeth that it sees a revival. Trenwith has been run by men for too long.”

He paused.

“Maybe a lady in the house would do you good as well.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much is revealed when two enemies talk. Old wounds open up, emotions run high, and a misunderstanding gives way to a deeper understanding - even though Ross finds himself wondering if he ever knew George at all, and what other surprises the night might hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's still reading this. I know I promised smut, but first I'm afraid you'll have to bear another round of those two idiots trying not to insult each other with every word. The smut will be worth it, though (or so I hope).

* * *

 

 

Ross’ breath hitched as soon as the words were out. He had not meant to say that. Why George wasn’t married was none of Ross’ business, and to interfere in such a manner in the affairs of someone who wasn't exactly a friend was very rude indeed. For a second or two he feared George might take offence at his words, but to his relief he was only met with a raised eyebrow and a small smile.

“Perhaps you’re right. Is there anyone in particular you would marry me off to? I confess I am not at all up to date on the current list of eligible maidens.” There was a light, joking tone to George’s voice.

“Well, I hear Mrs Teague’s daughter is back on the market,” Ross said and couldn’t help an actual giggle at the image.

“Ugh!” George rolled his eyes and pulled a face, and again Ross was surprised to see him capable of that. He’d always thought of George as stiff as a poker and cold as a fish, but he began to get an idea that he had been entirely mistaken about that.

He chuckled lightly. “Hm, I’m afraid can’t think of any other profitable catch right now…” 

There was an immediate change in George's posture. He became somewhat rigid, his face taking on a defiant expression. Ross could see the muscles in his jaw tightening, working around the words he said next. 

“Not everything I do is for profit, Ross, even though you obviously still think so.”

“I was just trying to say….” Oh, damn it! Obviously, George had taken the remark as a personal slight while in truth Ross had meant nothing by it. He’d just wanted to crack a joke about marrying rich, but George's reaction proved how fragile the truce between them was. Civil words and pleasant manners could not make up for years of pent up enmity. They hadn't seen each other in over a year and Ross had thought that maybe, just maybe things had changed, but apparently the old wounds had not healed at all.

“Not everyone can afford to marry out of love, Ross - or with disregard to social standing.”

“You should know by now that I care little about such things,” Ross said darkly, sensing another jab at his own marriage to a  _scullery maid_.

“You made that clear many times,” George acknowledged with a curt nod. “And yet you look down upon the blacksmith's grandson living in a gilded mansion.”

Ross let out an annoyed huff. Oh,  _please_  not that old argument!

“Jesus Christ, George! You misunderstand me entirely. You always have, so while we're here it’s probably a good idea to clear this up once and forever.”

He stepped closer, invading the other man's personal space on purpose. He was entirely done with this nonsense and if that meant he couldn’t brush George off like he usually did when their conversations reached this level, then so be it.

“I do  _not_  despise you, and I don’t care that your family comes from humble origins. I am the  _last_  person to begrudge anyone their wealth when it's earned through hard and honest work. What do I care whether your grandfather was a blacksmith or a nobleman? I have no such prejudice, George. God knows no man is born noble by default. My own family were humble workers in the eleventh century and only when one of them did the duke a favour we were granted lands and titles. There is nothing wrong in having a working-class background, nothing at all.”

It was utterly ridiculous, the two of them standing there in the middle of the night, Ross in a nightgown and George in no more than his underclothes, arguing over the same old thing. But then Ross came to realize that he'd never actually told George in a matter-of-fact way what exactly it was that drove him up the wall. He had shouted, yes, or used caustic words that were meant to hurt, or been indeed utterly rude to the other man, and at one point he had let his fists do the talking. But had he actually ever explained to George what rattled him so? Had he cared to? No.

“Look,” he began again, going as far as to place a hand lightly on George's arm. Ross wasn't one for touching while talking to someone, that was more what George usually did, but this time their roles seemed quite reversed. 

“This has got nothing to do with who you are or where you come from. What I despise are the methods by which your business operates, and the moral code that's behind them. Exploiting those who have nothing left and driving those to ruin who depend on you – that’s not something I ever want to be a part of. I'd rather be known for kindness than for ruthlessness. Is that so hard to understand?” 

He was almost begging with George, hoping for the man to have some common sense. It had gone so well between them until now - but somehow it seemed they were not made to last through more than four or five polite sentences. It was always like that. Either Ross or George always said something to incite the other, and their encounter ended in mutual insults. Ross was so, so tired of it all.

This time though, George looked at him all serious. “It isn't. I understand your sentiment. And I would even go as far as to agree with you. My trade is not a fair business as such, and not one I would have chosen, were I ever given the choice.”

“But it can be your choice to change the way it works, George. This day, you can apply less vicious methods. You could allow yourself leniency, a course of action that does not involve driving people into ruin or suicide, and still yields profit.”

“I fear it is not as easy as you think, Ross.” George briefly pinched the bridge of his nose before looking at Ross again. “My father was the type of man you postulate: mild, lenient, understanding. He always had a heart for people and was known to extend loans well beyond the agreed stretch of time. Then in one case he just could not postpone the due day anymore. He called in the debts, and in a spiteful act of revenge the man stabbed him to death in broad daylight.”

Ross shuddered. Though he had never known George's father in person, he knew the story of Nicholas Warleggan's death – but to hear it here, in George's own words, was quite chilling in itself especially since all the tales of the crime had always pointed out in gruesome detail how George, still a boy of ten years at the time, had been with his father when it happened, and had to be carried away from the scene crying and covered in his father's blood.

“My uncle on the other hand has always ruled the business with an iron fist, and if he hadn’t adopted me, I would not stand in this place today. I am obliged to him, and that means playing by his rules, even though I do not necessarily like them. Or him, for that matter.”

“But is it not up to you how you run your part of the business? Do those rules say you must act like you do?”

“No, but they say a lot of other things. That I am not in full possession of the Warleggan fortune until I am properly married, for example. Which effectively prevents me from being master of my own affairs. I’m under the command of the old tyrant whether I want to or not.”

Somewhat deflated, Ross sank back against the wall. He had never given much thought to these things – never bothered in the first place. He had never even tried to understand what drove his enemy. Realizing now that George was not simply taking pleasure in doing harm to others made Ross question his own actions from the past. Suddenly he felt like he knew nothing, while George appeared so much more experienced in this world of business and trade that Ross had little knowledge of. His were simpler concerns: mining, farming, struggling for an income, caring for his family.

“Why does this have to be so complicated?” he sighed, running a hand across his forehead, not realizing he had said the words out loud until George leaned closer, a knowing expression on his face.

“I know. And believe me, personally I have no interest in golden chandeliers and expensive clothes, Ross, and I care little for the lords and esquires and their opinions. I play this game because I must. My family has come this far, but what if we fail? If  _I_  fail? We would soon fall back into poverty, and everything my grandfather worked hard for will be for naught.”  
  
Their eyes met, holding each other’s gaze for a long moment – George’s grey ones seemed even stormier than usual, deep, agitated, so intense that Ross felt like he was looking at a seascape painted by a master’s hand.

“You are right, I envy you, Ross. But not for land or for your titles. I envy you for the ease with which you can look down upon your own class. Only the privileged can indulge in despising the privilege they were born into, and which enables them to undertake such musings in the first place. I cannot allow myself to do that. If I show any weakness to these people, they will tear me apart and drag me down.”

And wasn't George right about that? Hadn't Ross' own trial proved how fast one fell from grace? All these people, so-called _friends_ , who had spoken sweetly to him, but turned their backs as soon as he had broken the obvious rules by which their genteel society operated. It was true, Ross despised his own class, for whom a title and a name was more important than a man’s character.

For the first time he began to truly understand the situation George must be in. A few decades ahead, the Warleggans would be mentioned in one breath with all the other distinguished families of Cornwall, but now, one generation down from a blacksmith, they were no more than upstarts; rubble one came to despise but had to keep up an appearance to. One mistake, one step off the trodden path and the family would fall. And George with them.

Ross began to feel like he was at the beginning of finally seeing through a very elaborate plan that had so far escaped his very notice.

“But why me, George? Yes, I see now that we are indeed not so very different in our motivations, but what could I possibly give you? How could  _I_  be of help to you? I have nothing, no money, no wealth, nothing but an ancient name and a derelict mine. I could not even open the door into society for you because I am an outcast as well. I’m hardly a part of that mob - if anything, they tolerate me because I give them a source for gossip.”

“Maybe I just like you, as a person.” George said with a shrug, attempting a wry smile.

Ross was dumbstruck. Was that a jest? A poor joke? The truth, awkwardly confessed? George had always puzzled him, then and now. He was a closed book with an unreadable face and eyes that gave nothing away, something Ross had come to secretly admire at certain times. His own demeanour gave away too easily what he was thinking; it had always been a struggle to keep his opinions from showing all too clearly on his features. Even in school it had been like that. Ross wore his heart on his sleeve even though silence would sometimes have been the better choice, while George was able to keep the straightest face in the direst situations. That made it increasingly hard to read the young banker’s emotions – maybe here lay the origin of their troubles altogether.

George meanwhile had turned his back to Ross, and at first Ross thought he was going to take his leave, but then he half looked back over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

“….or maybe it’s another kind of interest altogether.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ross asked, befuddled.

“Can you not guess?” said George, a softness in his voice that seemed reserved for the deepest hours of the night, when no one listened but the wind that howled around the ancient walls.

Ross would have loved to scream –  _tell me, tell me what’s the meaning of this!_ He wanted to shake George, to shout at him, punch him even, anything to wipe that look off his face that said nothing and so much at the same time; so much that Ross could not fathom the true meaning of the words, except ---

“You asked why I am still unmarried, and you are right. I am thirty years of age and have not even proposed to anyone, although my uncle has presented me a list of possible candidates for, as he calls it, breeding.” He shuddered slightly. “But nothing ever came of it.”

“And why is that? Shouldn’t you just, I mean…what you said about coming into a fortune once you’re married, isn’t that reason enough to just pick someone off that list and go with it? Surely there must be _one_ lady that strikes your fancy.”

George looked at him with ultimate sadness. “Again you assume that profit is all I am interested in. Has it ever occurred to you that even I might want to give away my hand in love?”

Love. What an unexpected word, here, from George. It seemed so strange, so alien – Ross’ first instinct was to laugh, because surely this could only be a joke. Was George truly capable of loving someone? Had he ever loved before? Been loved by someone? Try as he might, Ross failed to picture that.

“I know you think I have no heart, Ross. But I do, and it has belonged to someone for a long time now. Someone I can never have.”

“Oh?”

Ross had not learned as much about George in twenty years than in the past thirty minutes of this conversation. Part of him wondered if this was a dream. A curious half-nightmare born from the consequences of too much grief, and too much alcohol. But then George must be just as inebriated, because the next words he said made no sense at all.

“It has always been you, Ross.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One confession leads to another, words that have been kept secret for years. Ross finds himself surprised by his own curiosity, but in the end it's George who takes matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying tuned :-) No smut yet, but we're getting there....

* * *

 

He was staring. Staring at the other man, at the blond hair and the high cheekbones and the red mouth that had just spoken words so impossible, so unbelievable that Ross wondered whether he was caught in some weird dream.

Had the entire world gone daft in a day? Surely his mind was playing tricks on him. Surely he would wake up any second. Francis would not be dead, and George would not just have confessed his love to Ross. His head was spinning. He counted the seconds, but nothing happened.

Ross wasn’t so much shaken by the fact that George had feelings for a man. Though frowned upon by society (and punishable by law), it was in truth not as uncommon as one would think. Many a gentleman harboured tender affections towards a stable boy or a servant, and some bolder ones even entertained relations with a member of their own class. Ross himself had had the odd crush on a boy during school days, although he had quickly lost interest once he got more familiar with the fairer sex. 

Come to think of it, it did not surprise him in the least that George was such inclined, though the discovery that  _he_  was at the centre of George's affections came quite as a shock.

And then, like cracks appearing in a drying coat of paint, George’s resolve began to break.

“Do you know how hard it was to keep this to myself all those years?" he said, and his voice was but a whisper. "At school, I had to conceal my feelings for fear of being exposed. At home, my uncle never spared me the rod anyway, but if he found out about my _unnatural_ desires, he'd have been furious.”

His lips tightened, contracted into an almost painful pout, teeth digging into them, reluctant to let those confessions slip out. George had probably never spoken about this to anyone in his entire life.

“Later, I took to pretending it was nothing but business interest that had me looking for your friendship, until I had sufficiently convinced even myself. Do you know what it was like, sitting next to you at some dinner party, trying to act aloof while watching you charm the ladies one by one? Do you have any idea how that feels, feigning indifference while the man I love falls for someone else before my eyes?”

Ross looked to the floor. Love had caused him pain as well, no one knew that better than a man who came home to find his sweetheart in the arms of another, but at least he had had the opportunity to make his feelings known to Elizabeth, and they had had a brief time of bliss together. He remembered how his heart had been beating with excitement, how his entire body vibrated with joy when they were together, how utterly content he was with himself and the world when her eyes looked deep into his and when she smiled at him and called him _my love_. Ross could not imagine what it must be like to keep such feelings hidden. He, for sure, would not have had the strength for it.

“Elizabeth's happiness, and yours, it was like a thorn in my side. And then to see you go away to war, and to your doom, without any chance to tell you how I truly feel, that was the hardest part.” The words were unstoppable now, tumbling over George’s lips like a waterfall. His voice had become an intense whisper, captivating, while his eyes had taken on a far-away expression.

“You had died in battle, they said, and Elizabeth wore her grief like a badge. I could not mourn openly for you, so I drowned myself in work instead. I grew cold and distant, merciless, an instrument played by my uncle for his purpose, since there was nothing left for me to look to. And then you came back –” he looked up, meeting Ross’ eyes. “And everything grew worse.”

Ross swallowed around a lump in his throat. Seeing George so vulnerable – it scared him. He didn’t know how to deal with this, what to make of this flood of emotions that suddenly swept over him. Yet at the same time he was intrigued. How easily he could mock George for everything he had just confessed. One word from Ross, a laugh, a sneer could utterly destroy what little courtesy was left between them. George had stripped his soul bare, and with his last confession he had given Ross the key to his fate. From this crossroad, they could part as either friends or foes for life. Just one word could burn the last, fickle bridge between them. It would be so easy – and unfair in the face of George’s brutal honesty.

Ross lowered his head in defeat. It had grown rather cold in the gallery. He pulled his banyan gown tighter about him.

“Why did you never say a word?” he asked in the end, wondering how differently so many things could have gone in the past had he known of George's secret.

“And then what? Would you have married  _me_?" George huffed a humourless laugh. "Swept me away on your white steed to live happily ever after? No, Ross. Even you cannot defy certain rules. We live in a society where it may be tolerable for a gentleman to marry a miner's daughter, and for a blacksmith's grandson to become a gentleman, but I doubt it will ever become acceptable for a man to love another man." He added, more quietly, "And besides, you had lost your heart to Elizabeth."

The truth in that could not be denied. Ross had indeed been so obsessed with winning Elizabeth's heart (and her approval) that he had paid little attention to anything - or anyone - else. It hadn't exactly served him well when he came back from the war.

“You are right,” nodded Ross. “I was besotted.”

Oh, what a curious turn this evening had taken. The former enemies were standing close, eyes locked, trying to gauge each other’s reaction. Ross was fascinated by the play of light and dark on George's features. The last time they'd been so close, they had been at each other's throats. If George decided to punch him now, Ross was very likely to get his own nose broken. But instead of hitting him, the blond banker simply lifted his left hand and laid it lightly against Ross’ cheek.

“What I'd have given for you to look at me the way you looked at her,” George said softly with a tiny wistful smile.

He leaned in, ever so slightly until their faces were almost touching. Ross felt the little gush of air against his skin when George whispered close to his ear.

“The price I would be willing to pay for one minute with you exceeds the fortune of my family. I would ruin myself just to gain your attention for a few fleeting moments.”

And then, just like that, George kissed him. 

It was a hesitant kiss. Just a shy pressing of shivering lips against his mouth, warm and lingering. George had his eyes closed, heavy lids covering those stormy pools as he took what he was craving. Ross stayed still, not in shock but in unexpected fascination. Boldness had never failed to catch his interest, and George was being bold like no one in a long time. 

The curious half-kiss lasted only seconds, but a million thoughts crossed Ross' mind. How warm George's mouth was. What a pretty blush had broken out high on his cheeks. What a nice shadow his eyelashes cast onto his face. A faint scent was clinging to him, a hint of something vaguely exotic that was quite pleasant to Ross' senses.

Eventually George pulled away, flushed, his eyes almost feverishly glazed over. His lips were slightly parted, revealing the tip of his tongue. Ross' eyes were drawn to the other man's neck, to the rapid beating of the pulse underneath the pale skin. He couldn't help a somewhat triumphant grin. This was his doing. George was looking utterly dazed, and Ross was the reason for it.

Was he aroused by this? Ross couldn't tell. He most definitely should not be, but there was no denying that the kiss had sparked a certain interest. The touch of another man's lips was surprisingly not at all unpleasant, and the fact that this was George....

 _I wonder what a real kiss would feel like with him._  

Ross' own breath came faster. They stood there, touching and yet not, close and yet apart, and would probably have remained like this forever had not George decided to be bold once more.

The second kiss was different. More confident, now that Ross had neither withdrawn nor lashed out, but also laced with more than just mere curiosity. Ross wasn't sure if it could be called desire, but the way George's mouth slid against his own, so warm and soft, pushing and teasing and nibbling, capturing Ross’ bottom lip between his, caressing it with tender little bites while their breaths mingled in shuddering gasps….

Ross had never known that a kiss could be so much more than just a pressing of lips onto lips, and he was surprised to find George, of all people, to be a master at it.

With a half-lidded gaze, he took in George's expression. The white skin almost like porcelain in the candlelight, neither hair nor scar marring its smooth perfection. Ross lifted a hand to rub his thumb across George's cheek. A small sound tore from the banker's throat at that, echoing deep within Ross' mind. Encouraged by it, he bit down softly on the plush bottom lip, noting with satisfaction that it drew yet another tiny noise that was definitely one of approval. Still gloating, Ross was taken quite by surprise when something hot and wet touched against the seam of his mouth.

He should be appalled by this, and yet he was far from it. Ross opened up willingly, letting the warm tongue invade his mouth. There was nothing shy now anymore about George's advance, nothing hesitant about the way he kissed. Ross found himself on the receiving end, not leading but being lead, reacting to George's demands and answering to what was asked of him. His eyes fell shut although he would've liked to watch the banker further, but this was too good to waste it with pointless observations.

Ross’ hands, limply at his sides until now, began to act on their own agenda, too. They came up to touch the soft linen of the shift, so fine that Ross’ fingers seemed coarse against the fabric. He traced the outlines of the body underneath: the angle of a shoulder, the bend of an arm, the downward sweep of George’s chest. Down they went, those hands, marked by the toils of hard work, down ‘til they reached George’s waist underneath the pristine shirt, a waist that was narrow like a girl’s, and Ross’ hands slowly mapped out its gentle curving.

The sound George made at the initial contact, somewhere between a deep sigh and a low moan was enough to wipe out any doubts about whether this was right or proper.  

Ross broke the kiss just enough to whisper, “God, I've barely touched you and you're already moaning.”

The answer was a sly smile from beneath downcast lashes. “…now imagine what would happen if you touched me properly.”

Ross' breath hitched in his throat. His heart was beating like a Cornish drum, drowning out his hearing as his brain caught up with the implications of George’s words. To touch him properly – that meant…unclothed. Skin on skin. Ross’ hands in places that had been hidden under fine garments; touching his enemy’s body in an impossibly intimate fashion. A body that was offered willingly, and with the greatest pleasure as it seemed. George pressed himself into the touch, and the way he swayed and shivered from apparent need shot straight to Ross’ groin. It felt like he was meeting George for the first time. This was an entirely new and different side of him, not only bare of his usual stiff reserve, no - this George was a blatantly sexual creature, an incubus sure of his desires, knowing perfectly well what he wanted - and who.

What would George feel like, nude, bare underneath Ross’ wandering fingers? Would the rest of his body be as soft as his lips? Would his skin be even paler where fabrics usually covered him? Suddenly, Ross longed to find out.

Just as he meant to intensify the kiss once more, there was a sound from somewhere in the gallery – a door being cracked open, tiny footsteps falling on the floor, a circle of light as someone peeked into the corridor by the shine of a candle. Ross moved quietly like a ghost, shoving George around the corner and half behind a heavy curtain.

“Is there anybody there?”, a faint voice called out; a voice that Ross instantly recognized.

Verity. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost caught by Verity, Ross quickly finds a way to continue his talk with George elsewhere - although George is more for letting actions speak than words....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I promised smut, so here we go. I hope you enjoy =^.^=
> 
> Drawers = 18th century undergarments usually made of soft but robust fabrics like linen or cotton. Women with a few exceptions did not wear drawers until well into the 19th century; men occasionally wore them during colder weather or in special situations. I think they're hot, which is why I'm straying a bit from historical facts here...^^

* * *

 

“Hello? Elizabeth? Aunt Agatha?”

Ross cursed silently behind the curtain. Verity had always been a light sleeper, stirred easily by any noise. Had she woken from the sounds Ross and George had been making? But her room was too far away for her to pick up such little noises of pleasure. Here was to hoping she had just been sleepless and heard only shreds of their earlier conversation.

Ross was in no mood to explain why he was outside his room, dressed as he was, and in the company of their ominous guest no less. As the footsteps drew dangerously close to their hiding place, he quickly signalled George to be quiet, grabbed him by the wrist and tugged the smaller man along through a side corridor, away from Verity and her all-too-inquisitive mind.

Even though they hadn’t been running, they were slightly out of breath when they reached the door to a room on the second floor. Ross flung it open with a quick push of his shoulder and the two of them tumbled inside.

The room was one of Trenwith’s many guest rooms – the Blue Room, so named for its ample curtains of blue and silver brocade. Ross had used it on a few occasions in his younger years. It was equipped with a large four-poster bed covered in lush draperies of blue silk. Moonlight filtered in through the window, enhancing the silvery glimmer of the luscious fabrics. The embers of a covered fire were glowing in the fireplace, a precautionary measure to keep the room heated should it be needed to accommodate another surprise visitor these days.

Knowing there were spare candles in every room, Ross padded to the cabinet against the far wall while George remained leaning against the door, watching him. 

As much as Ross wanted to see where this was going, he forced himself not to rush. Grabbing a spill from the vase on the mantelpiece he dipped it into the sulphur box, then knelt down and held it to a glowing piece of coal, blowing gently onto it to ignite the spark. A tiny one caught on to the tip of the spill, bursting into flame as soon as it came into contact with the chemical. 

 _Much like George and I,_  Ross thought, staring into the flame while the fire came to life.  _One is the spark and the other the brimstone, and whenever we meet, we ignite a fire._

Quickly dismissing the thought, he lit the candles and put them in a holder on the mantelpiece.

_Don’t be silly._

Turning around he found that George had left his place at the door, standing only a few inches away from him. Another of those unfathomable smiles was on his lips.

“Abducting me to a lone place so no one can hear me?”, George teased, voice low and breathy, one eyebrow cocked cheekily at Ross. He leaned casually against the back of a nearby chair, and Ross would have almost thought the scenario ridiculous if it weren’t for the impact George’s words had on him.

A steady throbbing in his nether regions, fuelled by the look in the other man’s eyes, and his own fantasies. What was this sudden desire to see pale skin on blue silk; this urge to hear more of those moans fall from his enemy’s lips? Such thoughts, so shockingly alien and at the same time so exhilarating, were entirely new to Ross.

“I wonder what you plan to do to me, Ross…”

George’s eyes were positively gleaming. He reached out to touch Ross at the shoulder, tentatively at first, more insistently when met with no resistance. Leaning in, he began to kiss along Ross' jaw. The faint tickling of George’s breath and the sensation of warm, fluttering lips sent a pleasant shiver down Ross’ spine, and sparked by curiosity he let him continue.

“…is it something that will require you to shut me up, I wonder? With your hands, or…with your mouth…?”

George's hands found the gap in Ross' gown and slid inside, touching his bare chest at the same second as his mouth found Ross’.

By now, Ross was rock hard. A distant corner of his brain insisted that this was a bad idea altogether, but that voice was quickly drowned out. Grabbing the banker by the hips Ross drew him into another kiss, harder this time, full of bruising force and tongue and nipping teeth.

No one could hear them here indeed; the Blue Room was far enough from everyone's quarters. No one would walk in on them doing what no gentleman should do with another, kissing and touching shamelessly. George moaned into his mouth, hands hot on Ross' skin. Ross’ grip tightened, fingers digging into fabric and flesh, causing George to buck and make another breathy noise.

“The sounds you make!” Ross observed, half-amused.

“Yes? Do you like them? Do they turn you on?”

Instead of an answer, Ross merely growled and went back to kissing him.

George's wandering hands found the belt that held Ross' robe together; two quick tugs and it came loose, the robe falling open in the front to reveal the length of Ross' naked form. George broke the kiss and stepped back to look at him – no, no, he devoured Ross with his eyes, truly and utterly, from head to toe, from his wild curls and his eyes and his mouth down to his collarbones, his nipples, from his belly button along the trail of hair on his stomach...and further down to his undeniable arousal.

Ross _was_ not only naked, he also  _felt_ naked; naked and exposed under such scrutiny, and yet there was a soft look in George's eyes and an even softer smile on his lips as he measured Ross' every curve like a particularly valuable possession.

“You do not disappoint, Ross. Not in the slightest.”

It came breathily, with a slight quivering at the end that betrayed the desire underneath. George licked his lips. He closed the distance again, hands back on the body he had just peeled from its silken cocoon. They were warm, the hands of the man whom Ross despised so much; warm and soft and gentle, yet speaking of a need greater and more desperate than anything Ross had ever felt, greater even than his own desire for Elizabeth's affections.

“Would you make such sounds for me?” George's lips touched Ross' ear as he whispered those words between them, words like liquid honey, and the meaning of them seeped into Ross' mind, echoed in his blood, travelled through his body and went straight to his throbbing cock. Inadvertently he bent his head back, giving up his throat to the onslaught of a wet, warm mouth.

“I…”

“Let me hear you, Ross. Let me do this for you...”

And before Ross could even protest or grasp the implications of these words, George went to his knees before him.

“What…?”

That warm mouth opened up, tongue darting out, half-lidded eyes looking up at him, and then…

_“Oooh…!”_

George made it look like Ross’ manhood was a sweet treat stolen from the dinner table. He swirled his tongue around the head, licking, lapping, teasing.

_Oh, dear Lord Jesus Christ. Why is this so wrong and yet so wonderfully good?!_

Ross never indulged in such forbidden carnal delights with Demelza, although like any man he sure dreamed of it. It seemed somehow wrong to ask this of her, even though Ross would not have minded paying back the favour. Alas, it was not bound to happen, except now with an unexpected partner….

The crafty tongue went down the length of him, George’s eyes never leaving Ross’, and there was even a small smirk tugging at one corner of the blond man’s mouth. George performed the act with utter brilliance, licking at the base and even further down, teasing against Ross’ testicles in the most scandalizing way.

In times before his marriage, Ross had sometimes paid a tavern wench for such services. But now there was George, doing it quite willingly - having  _offered_  to do so in the first place, and even if Ross wanted, he could not stop himself.

The warm mouth followed an upwards path again, plush lips pressing against the hot shaft like a lover’s kiss. Further up, wet tongue wrapping around the pulsing head, and then Ross’ world went down in a blur of lust when George swallowed him down in one smooth go.

“George...!” He moaned involuntarily, grabbing the kneeling man's hair.

From above he had the perfect angle to watch his cock slide in and out of that willing mouth, George making the most delicious dirty noises as he sucked and licked Ross’ cock better than any whore ever had. A distant part of Ross’ mind wondered where a banker might acquire such skill, then decided he did not care in the least.

He had to sit back against the chair to keep himself steady. Spreading his legs a little wider for balance, the new position allowed George to go down further, and Ross couldn’t help a loud moan when the tip of his cock touched the back of George’s throat.

_So deep….how does he do that…_

Ross caught a reflection of himself in the window. The robe had entirely slipped off his shoulder, pooling behind him on the brocade-covered seat. Half-naked in the firelight, his black locks tousled, sweat starting to break out on his skin, he looked like the very picture of debauchery. He stared at the figure in fascination. Was that really him? He could hardly believe it, and yet the figure mirrored his movements.

He began to thrust his hips forward into the warm, welcoming mouth; amazed that George let himself be used so willingly. Three, four thrusts, fingers tightening in blond hair, five, six, a throaty moan, seven and it was quickly becoming too much, too close, too….

Pulling out he hauled George up and straight into a heated kiss. The man’s mouth tasted sweet. Should he worry that his own cock had been in there not a minute ago? Ross found he did not care.

Instead he grabbed the hem of George’s shirt, tugging at it, impatient to see it go. He was curious to learn what was underneath, and yearning to feel naked skin under his fingers.

“Strip!” He ordered hoarsely, shrugging off his own robe.

George shot him a grin and a look from heavy-lidded eyes. “As you wish.”

He began to lift up his shirt, slowly, oh so slowly, teasing Ross with every passing second as the fabric travelled up and up, revealing knees, thighs –

Drawers.

He was wearing drawers. No sane man was wearing drawers! Only the sick or elderly bothered with these undergarments. Granted, these particular ones were made of fine linen, almost transparent, cut to the body so they outlined George’s body perfectly. Ross’ eyes were drawn to the waistband and the little bow there, inviting him to tug at it like the unwrapping of a present. He could make out the bulge of George’s cock behind the flimsy fabric, eagerly straining against its confines, the degree of his arousal visible as a traitorous wet spot on the otherwise immaculate linen.

George pulled the shirt over his head, breaking the spell. Ross was surprised to find him not smooth at all as he had imagined, but instead with a dusting of blond hair on his chest, and a small wispy trail leading down to what was still hidden from view. Ross reached out, grabbed him, pulling him close. The naughty smirk was still on the banker’s face, annoying Ross, arousing him, driving him mad with need and lust. Reaching down he closed his hand around George’s cock, flesh and fabric alike, and gave it a rough squeeze that drew a mewling sound from the other’s lips.

“I'm not going to suck you,” Ross growled, keeping his hand where it was.

“I know,” nodded George, a pretty blush on his face. “Just you looking at me…touching me…is satisfaction enough.”

Ross was slightly taken aback by that. Would George really ask so little in return for giving so much? Once again, the man was a closed book to him, and Ross began to understand just how desperate George must have been all these years, for anything – a look, a friendly word….a touch.

Ross had spoken the truth when he’d said he would not perform what George had done to him. Having another man’s cock in his mouth didn’t appal him, not exactly, but it was too much in too little time; maybe if they’d been lovers for longer he might be willing to try, or maybe if their encounter continued to wreck his brain with lust...

He couldn’t simply imagine himself doing such a thing so easily, but he would give George more satisfaction than just looking at him.

A touch, he could do that. The hard manhood felt familiar in his hand, not at all unpleasant, and given how responsive George was, it wouldn’t take long to bring him over the edge. With a quick tug he opened the teasing little bow, both hands inside the waistband now, making quick work of the undergarment until his fingers finally – _finally_ – found flesh.

George’s arse was small and smooth and round, perfect for the palms of Ross’ hands. He cupped it, squeezed, earning himself a shivering moan – yes, yes he would touch this body, touch every inch of it, he would hear more of those moans, see more of that blush. He’d take everything George was going to offer.

“Get on the bed!” he growled, tossing the linen drawers to the side.


End file.
